Love in the Time of $&*t

fleshtint-mu web

“Mama, if you stay here (in South Sudan) long enough your skin will become nice and black like ours.  You might have pale skin now, but you have Sudanese blood.”

I honestly don’t know I have ever been or could ever be given a higher honor than that statement.  To love a people so deeply you become in some sense part of them, even if for a short while.  My skin did darken, but it was more due to not mastering the art of the one-legged bucket bath than anything else.

When I heard what our current POTUS proclaimed over people I would have gladly given my life for, I just haven’t found words until now.  I’m hurt.  I’m saddened. I’m repulsed.  I’m angry.  But unfortunately I’m not surprised.

{Yes, I have heard the argument that his statement was misreported but from eye-witness accounts I have heard and read, he did actually call Africa the more profane version of a cesspool.  And yes I have heard the arguments that, oh he’s just being himself and using profanity to make a point.  Well, words matter.  And he has repeatedly tried to enact policy to mirror his words.  So isn’t just rhetoric. It is action too.}

I have stood on burning trash mounds with people who have been thrown away by almost everybody, including their own culture.  I lived right in the center of what Pres. Trump called an African $&*%hole for 7 years. 

And it isn’t.  It just isn’t.  I lived there.  It isn’t.

It is a place filled with stunningly strong people who have endured suffering most of us in the West can’t even imagine.  There is a perseverance and an understanding of community and family that have forever changed me.

I was the foreigner.  I was the one who barely spoke their language.  And they took me in.  They shared their words and their hearts and sometimes the last bit of food they had because THAT is who they are.

That Mr. President is not a $&*%hole.  Anyone who thinks otherwise is profoundly mistaken.

This family had just lost everything except each other in a bombing run.  And they were concerned that I know God would always care for me.

Was it hard?  Absolutely.  Did it stretch me beyond my own limits?  Almost every day.  Did it cost me my health?  It did, for a season at least.  But those 7 years watching a nation be born, living right in the middle of it all, those years hold some of my dearest memories and people who will forever be held in my heart as the heroes they are.

Even the littlest one gets her own greeting.  Culturally, greetings are very important.  Every single person in the room gets recognized with a handshake.

I’ve spent most of my adult life overseas in the color minority.  And every place I’ve been all I can do is marvel at how incredibly beautiful people are.  So as an artist I’m a bit perturbed by the paint color “flesh tint”.

“Flesh Tint” only applies to a small subsection of Caucasian-complected people with a peachy glow.  In a world of incredible skin colors, that moniker is myopic and ethnocentric in the worst sense.

About a year ago, I broke out my paints and laid a spectrum of flesh tints into my journal.  The One who I follow, His flesh does not match a pink-toned hue.   He is not an Italian supermodel or a paltry, pale-faced, miserable waif.

Jesus was Jewish.  He looks Middle Eastern.  He is life and joy and strength.  And He too was a refugee.  The nail-pierced One I follow was a refugee. 

He was born in a place that might qualify for Pres. Trump’s recent sentiments.  The King of Kings was born in a dirty, messy, dare I say $&*++y stable.

No matter what our flesh tint, we all bleed the same color.  Red.  And Jesus bled for all of us.

The only thing to me more disturbing than Donald Trump’s remarks, are those in certain corners of the church that seem to support his perspective outright, or acquiesce by excusing it.

Apologies can be received.  Repentance is absolutely possible.  And there can be forgiveness.   But beloved, there must not be excuses.

We who follow a Love-scarred Refugee Savior must do better than that.